Leo’s developmental clinic kept caregiver notes.

One month before the attack, Valerie told the occupational therapist that I had nearly dropped Leo.

I had not.

The clinic note read:

Mother reports teenage sibling frequently carries infant without adequate support and may be unsafe when distracted.

I stared at it.

“What?”

Dad looked sick.

I remembered the day.

I carried Leo from the living room to the nursery.

He grabbed my necklace.

I laughed.

Valerie said:

“Support his head.”

His head was already supported.

That became:

nearly dropped.

Another note:

Mother expresses concern that older sibling responds angrily to infant crying.

False.

I got frustrated sometimes.

I was seventeen.

But I had never yelled at Leo.

Another:

Mother reports Evan may be resentful of resources devoted to baby.

That one was almost funny.

I had skipped basketball practice twice to attend Leo’s appointments because Dad worked.

I learned how to arrange high-contrast toys.

How to approach before touching so Leo did not startle.

How to announce:

“Evan here.”

Why was Valerie building a record about me?

That became the next question.